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.

Watch the war in colour

The TV just told me that a new DVD of World War I is available. IN COLOUR! The colour will make it a joyful viewing experience because that black and white is just way too gloomy.

FREE!

Today I received a FREE brochure in the mail that invites me to sign up to receive more FREE brochures.

Yippee! More junk mail. By simply signing and sending off the tear off section I'll be able to receive free brochures about Male Arousal Patches, How to Win the Lottery, and How to Become a Published Writer. Very diverse and information that all good households need.

There's probably one coming to your suburb soon.

It's all in the way you flick your hair

I wish I had the self confidence of a fourteen year old and felt comfortable strutting about the house saying "I am so great, I am so great!" right after I'd just signed a contract with my parents agreeing to clean both toilets twice a day in lieu of having to do the dishes.

Yesterday

Four in the toilet, three in the pants!

Each time he told us he wanted to go and only three times we didn't make it in time.

A major breakthrough in all things toilet related

Not only did we have the plumber come yesterday to repair the toilet but Henry for the first time ever uttered these words with sounds of desperation "Mum, I have to do a wee on the toot"and then followed through.

We were so proud and so was he as he looked in the potty and saw it filled almost to the top.

When he needs to go he walks around with his legs crossed and bends over as though he's in pain. It's like he thinks if he does this he'll stop it coming out and wetting his shorts or something. I've tried to catch him each time but as soon as he'd get on the potty he'd stop and nothing would come and then he'd do it in his pants. My theory of him becoming uncomfortable each time he was wet eventually paid off and he asked to go. YAY! He may regress yet but so far this morning he's asked us to take him three times but not done anything. Yet.

I'll live in Melanesia

So the Intensive Behaviour Therapy is paying off. I think. Henry's day care teacher takes great delight in telling me how cheeky he's been though. I'm almost at the point of asking her if he EVER does anything positive. I think she's just paying me back for the time I got very irate with them all for leaving Henry outside. It's the same old story. The minute you question anyone's ability to do their job properly they'll pay you back by being stoney cold and miserable towards you.

In fact I'm starting to wonder whether or not anyone has any "people skills" anymore or life is so busy it just doesn't allow for "friendliness".

I am a member of freecycle.org. An online worldwide junkyard. The idea is that you post the stuff you no longer need (as long as it's still useable) and pass it along to someone who does. For free. The purpose of it is to keep stuff out of landfill for as long as possible by recycling it. You pass it along. You can also ask for specific items that someone may have lying around but forgot they had.

I have never asked for anything or actually ever collected anything from freecycle but I have managed to offload a lot of stuff that was too good for the tip but not good enough to sell. The problem is though that there are some people who will immediately respond to a post and ask for ANYTHING and EVERYTHING you have. They don't do it politely either. They write to you and say "I'll have it, post it to me at this address". As if! As if I am going to go out of my way to pack something that is FREE and send it off to some moron who is incapable of asking politely for it.

It's not just freecycle. It's everywhere. I'm sick and tired of it! There's no time to be polite because they always have somewhere to be that's better than where they are.

I watched a program on television last night about some Australian cops working in Melanesia. The guy said his time there had given him a new perspective on life because the people there have nothing but are so happy. The people back home in Australia live in relative luxury and have many possessions but are all miserable and stressed because they're chasing an impossible dream. Our communities have broken down, whereas their community is all they have. Each person looks out for the other. Maybe we need community based Intensive Behaviour Therapy.

End of rant.

Intensive Behaviour Therapy

I haven't been posting much lately. Partly due to lack of time but partly because I've been involved in some Intensive Behaviour Therapy (another way of saying I've been disciplining him in a psychologically friendly manner) with my adorable son. I guess the Terrible Two's have hit with some kind of incredible fury.

We had four days at my sister's house where he was an absolute angel because there was ALWAYS something to occupy his time, including the ute which he is sticking his head out of in the photo above. So I believe this current phase may be due to boredom. I've dug out all my old parenting manuals and have been intently reading them for the past few days and putting the ideas into practice. They work for the most part. I've also figured out that every afternoon I have to take him to the park and wear him out otherwise he's climbing the walls between the hours of 6 and 8PM.

I've given up attempting to visit with friends, especially those that don't have small children or never have because unleashing Henry in their homes induces a look of shock and horror and I can see them calculating the minutes before we leave. They start glancing at their watches and muttering under their breath that they just remembered they had to be somewhere. Somewhere away from us. I try to leave their homes in the same state it was when we arrive but it's sometimes very hard to see EVERY piece of broken glass. Plus it's impossible to have a conversation in which one person is required to speak a whole sentence at once so visiting anyone for company is clearly out of the question. If I need to lay eyes on another adult human I simply go to the grocery store. At least there when Henry pulls all the baked beans cans off the shelf I can walk away and pretend it was someone else.

The parenting manuals all assure me that this behaviour is normal for his age and he's testing the boundaries etc but I'm not sure if I'll make it past this and come out the other end still sane.

Perhaps I need to buy a ute and leave it permanently parked in the living room.

Rejuvenation

This morning I had a massage. And a skin rejuvenating facial. The photo above of my sister's cow has absolutely nothing to do with this by the way. I just posted it because the that cow is so relaxed she feels comfortable slobbering all over the floor of the house while she hollers for her daily weet bix.

So, before I attend my massage I go through my usual morning routine - shower, teeth, clothing. I look decent enough. I'm clean. I smell all perfumey and stuff. I get to the salon and am greeted by a smooth skinned well dressed, slim young girl. Immediately I feel dowdy. My denim skirt and crushed t-shirt and unkempt hair (I didn't bother with this) make me look like the stressed out, time poor mother that I am. She on the other hand looks like she's just stepped off the facial table.

I haven't had a massage for a long time. I had forgotten how uncomfortable they can actually be. I don't mean it's not relaxing, it's just that as soon as they tell you to undress you become instantly aware of the fact that you forgot to wear your best bra and undies. You've got on the ones you wore when you were still pregnant, the ones that have stretched so much they should actually be painted with the southern cross and raised on a flag pole. Your bra strap has been broken for months and it's attached to the cup with a rusty safety pin. You forgot that SOMEONE UNRELATED TO YOU MIGHT SEE THEM.

Luckily she leaves the room and you're able to take off your bra and hide it in your handbag before she sees it. You can get on the table and cover your undies with the towel that's hanging over the end of the massage table.

She tells you to get on the table and get comfortable and she'll be back in a moment. So you do. She comes in. Asks if you're comfortable. Too cool? Too warm? You've got your face shoved in that hole and your skin is being stretched so tight you can't really answer without sounding as though you've been trying to swallow one of the cotton wool balls you saw on the side table.

She warms up some oil in her hands and gets started. Bliss! for a minute or two. Then you get an itch in your leg. Right down behind your knee. You apologise and reach behind you to scratch it. Get relaxed again. Start drooling because you can't get your lips to meet together because they're stretched wide open while you've got your face in the hole. You watch it drip onto the floor. It's better to close your eyes. You relax again.

You start to wonder whether or not she's noticed that hairy spot on your back and is she thinking she'll offer you a wax job before you leave. You hope she doesn't notice the love handles that have formed over your hip area. You wonder if she thinks about having to massage really fat people and does she compare you to them. You hope she doesn't look down at the cracks on your feet and offer to give you a foot job too. Has she noticed that you haven't washed your hair for a few days? Are your ears dirty? You tell yourself that these things don't matter. She does this everyday. Surely she's not checking me over for signs of self neglect while she's attempting to help me relax!

After a while you start to forget about all that stuff because your face is actually numb. You have to pull stupid faces at the floor to help get the feeling back. You realise though that the tension knots in your back have disappeared. Just as you do she tells you it's time for the facial. She says she's leaving the room for a few minutes to make up the mask. She tells you to roll over onto your front and use the towel to cover yourself. You breathe a sigh of relief because you haven't paid any attention to your bikini line in several years.

She re enters the room with a bucket of foul smelling gunk. Apologises for the stench but assures you it's the best facial mask ever and that it's got REAL egg in it! Great! Slopping egg all over your face could be done at home where no one would care about your decrepit underwear but obviously this is a special egg facial. It's got added ingredients that are going to suck the poison straight out of your pores.

You discover the facial part is actually really very nice. Before the smelly gunk goes on some lovely smelling creamy/oily type things are lathered around and some hot towels are used to wipe it off. There's a steamy thing right in front of your nostrils turning the stuff inside your nose into a watery mess that starts rolling down your face. She very gently wipes it off for you and pretends she didn't notice.

Soon enough it's time for the foul smelling gunk. She lathers it on about two inches thick and then leaves. It seems like she's gone forever and left you with this concrete stuff to dry on your face. You can't move or it'll crack. Maybe it's supposed to do that!?

She returns and starts to scrape it off with a spatula. Then she rubs away at your face trying to remove the last dried up bits of egg. Finally it's over. But you don't want it to be. Because while you were in that room having someone pamper you and there was some kind of chanting being played in the background you realise you had actually relaxed and you didn't want to leave the confines of the dimly lit room that seemed a million miles away from the dirty floor, the screaming kids and the pile of bills. You realise it was the best damn massage/ facial you've ever had!

Then you go to work. With bits of dried egg still on your face.

Crappy New Year

I sure hope the crap that was floating around the bathroom floor and computer room downstairs earlier today is 2006's way of saying "smell ya later".

After we farewelled my sister and her children, who had stayed overnight, Ben went down to his computer room and soon after came running upstairs and announced there was a disaster. The floor was covered in water and floaty bits. We hastily put Henry to bed and started the mop up while trying not to gag. Not sure what went wrong but that is the third such incident since we've lived here. The bathroom downstairs rarely gets used and the plumber says the pipe that flows over is connected to the kitchen plumbing so something is going wrong somewhere. With a bit of luck we can move sometime soon. Just waiting for the lotto win that is coming my way.

The only good thing to come from it was a trip to the dump to get rid of some bits and pieces that were just taking up space anyway. Nothing important was ruined and thankfully no water got into any electrical appliances.

I will take this opportunity to kiss 2006 goodbye and enjoy the rest of my anniversary/ New Year's Eve with my husband and child. I may even polish off the vodka.

Wishing all of you the very best for 2007. May the weather be kind to you, the money tree abundant and the good cheer flow lashingly.

Merry Christmas to all

It's 6.30am and I'm the first one up. I'm quietly waiting for Henry and Ben to poke their heads out of the bedroom. I can hardly wait to see the look on Henry's face and hear him say "Oh my Goodness" as he tears the paper from the gifts piled under the tree. Then we'll call Sissy and wish her a Merry Christmas and find out what Santa brought her.

Merry Christmas one and all. May Santa bring you nothing but joy, champagne and a stuffed turkey. Happy Feasting!

And so this is Christmas

I'm finding it hard to get in the festive mood. It's not the weather because, thank God for small miracles, it's surprisingly cool for this time of year. By cool I mean it's not yet 50 degrees. There's a beautiful breeze most days and I am still able to breathe relatively comfortably. I haven't really felt festive at Christmas for a few years now. Maybe that just happens when you get older. Each year it becomes more and more of a drain and each year you can handle less and less festive spirit in the form of sparkling wine.

When I was a kid I looked forward to Christmas from about October onwards. By the end of the birthday marathon it was time to start preparing for Santa's visit. Of course now that I'm a mother who has to work for a living and try to provide many Santa gifts it has a new meaning. How my mother who had five children and ran a business did it I will never know.

My brother and sisters and I would spend hours drawing pictures of Christmas trees and colouring them in and hanging them all over the house. We'd make loops out of coloured paper and string them together and hang them in a doorway and on the tree. We'd carefully plan our shopping lists with the small amount of money we'd saved throughout the year. We'd write lists of things we hoped Santa would bring to us. Our home would become a veritable drop in centre . Friends and family would be in and out and the front door, not even bothering to knock. Those who knocked were not known to us but my father would still not bother getting up from his chair. He would simply yell "Enter" in a voice so loud it would frighten away even the most hardy red cross collector.

My father always left a six pack of beer for the garbage collectors, the postman and the milkman. We'd all stay up late Christmas Eve hoping to get a glance through mum's bedroom door where she'd locked herself in trying to wrap and sort out Santa's stash. We'd wake at about 3am to sneak a peek at our stockings but first we'd hurry to the kitchen to see if Santa had drunk the beer we left him and eaten the Sao smothered in Vegemite. We'd then go lock ourselves in the bathroom and check out the goods. We'd go back to bed for maybe another hour and then later make as much noise as possible while pretending to be quiet so that Mum and Dad would get up and we could open the gifts under the tree. Mum would play some carols and ever so graciously tell us how beautiful the strung together ceramic swans we bought her were and how they were just what she wanted. Dad would read every word on the label of the cheap aftershave and tell us he'd use that as soon as he had a shower.

Someone was given the job of stashing all the wrapping paper in the bin and then we were shooed out of the house so mum could start the gargantuan task of cooking a turkey, taking phone calls, wiping bloodied knees when someone fell of their new bike, and slapping hands when someone attempted to stick their finger in the gravy to test it out.

We'd sit on the front lawn and wait for the neighbourhood kids to come by with their new shiny toys and we'd compare. We'd then stuff ourselves stupid with food and then in the afternoon have a water fight with the hose while Mum and Dad slept.

Maybe I just don't have enough kids.

Get a Byron Bay Massage

I'm not sure if the message posted above the heads of these mannequins is completely visible but it says;

Make a fashion statement everyday

Watch the sunset from the lighthouse

Get a Byron Bay massage

I imagine this is some kind of list dreamt up by merchandisers and marketing professionals. The scene kind of reminds me of those ads years ago that presented cigarette smoking in a glamorous light - you too can be too cool for school if you have these clothes coupled with a distant, vacuous look. It's standoffish but inviting (read pert nipples).

Anyone who knows anything about Byron Bay will know that it's not only where the "beautiful people" go but it's also where the "feral" people go. The dirty hippies hang out there selling hash filled cookies to anyone who doesn't look like a cop. I imagine the real attraction to Byron Bay is it's beautiful coastline but there's got to be an element of the dangerous that is also inviting to the kinds of people this shopfront window is appealing to - young girls with an eating disorder who have rich parents who supply them with credit cards.

But I may be wrong, maybe it's women like me who think they could somehow emulate that look. When they're rushing all over town to pick up screaming toddlers and hormonal teenagers they imagine they can switch off and become as vacuous as a mannequin with pert breasts and a distant look. Somehow they'll be able to treat themselves to a Byron Bay massage and watch the sunset from the lighthouse while enjoying a home made cookie.

Ride the Big Red Car

Yesterday (oh it seems like years ago now) I took Henry to the Wiggles concert. I had my doubts as Henry always says "don't like the Wiggles" whenever I suggest we watch them on TV. That's only because they don't know the Fireman Sam theme song. Yet. I also find it rather amusing that that it's called a "concert" because that conjures up images of drunken teenagers sweating profusely while screaming and gyrating with their arms in the air to a screaming gyrating performer on stage. I guess a Wiggles concert is a little like that only the audience are not drunk and most of them are under five.

I hadn't really followed too closely the rise of the Wiggles since Maya ditched them for the Spice Girls about 10 years ago so I wasn't really prepared for the traffic jam as cars full of screaming toddlers lined up waiting to get to the carpark of the Boondall Entertainment Centre. I sat in traffic long enough during that jam to watch a mother get out of her car and take her daughter behind a tree to water the grass and casually stroll back to the car which hadn't moved more than an inch or two.

Last time I saw the Wiggles was in 1995 when I took Maya to one of their "concerts" in a church hall at Oxley for the grand price of $5. Now they're big enough to play to a packed out audience at a major entertainment complex to which tickets had been sold twelve months in advance and were accompanied by a personal loan application. They even have security guards at each corner of the stage to stop those sweating, gyrating toddlers from getting too close and possibly throwing a grenade and ruining it for everyone.

Henry, to my surprise, loved it and stayed still for at least three quarters of it, then he just got a tiny bit feral as opposed to the loose cannon type of feral he usually is. He did try a few of his usual bossy techniques on little Owen, a beautiful blogger baby we met for the first time at the concert. Owen was really getting down and grooving in the seat directly behind Henry but Henry didn't like it and demanded Owen "get off there". (Don't worry Owen, I punished him later by not letting him listen to Fireman Sam on the way home).

We also got to meet up with Charlotte and Carla who we hadn't seen for some time. Charlotte was doing pretty well at the grooving too on her heavily pregnant mother's lap.

Ah, it's a joy for parents to see their offspring enjoying themselves while they're still young enough to have a good time without the help of illicit drugs.

If only the pit didn't have sand

We gave Henry this tub filled with sand for his second birthday. At first he wouldn't go near it because it actually had sand in it and this sand made him "diiirrrty". He would sit beside it and Twinings Tea his fingers in the air so that they wouldn't have to touch the sand while he played with his trucks. Just recently he's started to get a little more friendly with it. He won't sit in it yet or put his feet anywhere near the sand but he will actually move his trucks around. He still attempts to avoid having to touch it but at least now he doesn't start thrashing around as though he's got a thousand bullants eating away at his flesh.

I attempted to make the experience more enjoyable for him by adding some of his plastic road pieces, building tunnels and adding some ginger leaves to create a more realistic "machines that destroy old forests" scene. I then got in and covered myself in sand, got his matchbox excavator and made machinery noises while pretending to dig and load up the dumptruck. He watched me intently, told me not to get "all diiiirrrty" and then had a go at it himself. The above photo is the result of me acting like a 2 year old so that I might teach my son how to act the same.

Wombat Divine

On Saturday evening we took Henry and Maya into the city to see the Myer Christmas Window Display. Every year they base their display on a different theme. This year it's Wombat Divine by Mem Fox. It's a kids book about a Wombat desperate to be in the school Nativity play but it's difficult to find him the right part as he's either too fat, too sleepy or too clumsy. He ends up fitting in perfectly as the baby Jesus.

We have had this book since Maya was Henry's age. It was much loved by her and is now much loved by Henry. The pages are all dog eared and smeared with vegemite and other assorted food items. The illustrations in the book are beautiful and the Myer display has clearly been in keeping with the book. They've even managed to find fabrics and colours that are all identical to the book.

I wasn't sure how Henry would cope with being in the city as I tend not to take him out in public very often because, dare I say it, he's a right royal pain in the butt. He runs off. Nothing can hold his attention for more than two minutes (except Fireman Sam). I was surprised that he enjoyed the window display enough to actually spend a total of about five minutes admiring it. As soon as he'd seen enough he of course took off. Fortunately we were in the mall and there was plenty of room for him to run without fear of being run over by a vehicle of some kind.

When we left we took the glassed elevator down to the carpark. We stood him in the elevator, told him to hang on and look outside. After the first level the lift descended into the darkness of the carpark and poor Henry must have thought he was being thrown down a well as he started shaking and was on the verge of tears but was too much in shock to actually cry. As the lift stopped he said "oh, oh don't like that lift Mummy". I picked him up and he was very tense and his heart was beating fast. The joys of running wild through the mall had been replaced by a fear. I only hope he isn't now psychologically tormented by the experience and will re-enter an elevator when the time comes to do so.

Happy Birthday Maya

Today marks the 14th anniversary of Maya's birth. I'm in shock and somewhat distressed of course but it's not about me. It's about her.

Yesterday afternoon we went to my mother's to play ladies in celebration. My mother had baked a sponge cake, pecan shortbread type things, mini puddings, and christmas tree shaped biscuits. This was all served on a crisp white linen table cloth, royal doulton china and lead crystal serving dishes. Even Henry had his own mini teacup. My mother does this for all her female grandchildren on their birthdays. I'm not sure whether she's attempting to show up her own daughters or whether she simply likes any excuse to lay out the "good" china.

There is of course a party which will involve several teenage boys and girls running around my home and neighbourhood planned for this coming weekend. I'll crack open a bottle of McWilliams sweet sherry and add it to my coffee as I lovingly agree to each and every demand placed upon me. After all isn't that what mothers do?

Here's proof. Proof that he won't say "five"

I found one!

Just the other day I was wondering if it was at all possible to buy a CD of theme songs from children's well loved TV shows. Postman Pat, Fireman Sam, Thomas the Tank - all of Henry's favourites and had even thought about making one myself. Until today that is.

While trawling a $2 shop I found one. It has a whole passel of favourites including the three mentioned above. We played it in the car on the way home and Henry thought for a moment Fireman San was going to pop up in the front seat driving his firetruck. I looked around to see his expression and he was not moving but his eyes were darting around the car in anticipation. Finally he relaxed and started singing along but when Postman Pat started playing soon after I thought he may just wet his pants with excitement.

As soon as Postman Pat finished Playschool started and this unfortunately elicited a cry of "don't like that song, put Fireman Sam on". So we listened to Fireman Sam a total of three times on the trip home from the shopping centre. I think a part of me is going to definitely regret wishing there was such a CD and having that wish come true.