Censored and Silenced

Game over.

The Sound of Muzac

Another way I like to pinpoint the speed that life is whizzing on by is The Sound of Music -o-meter.

I distinctly remember watching it thinking Gretel was pretty darn cool. Then I was Gretel. Then Martta, Brigitta, Luisa. I spent most of my life looking up to Leizel. And I wanted to have a boyfriend just like Rolf.

Now, Leizel's a kid, Rolf's just another dorky teenager with a bad haircut and pants too tight, I feel older than Julie Andrews even though I identify with her most, and Christopher Plummer is way hot.

It's amazing that it didn't feel like it took long at all to get here, up to the top of the Main Character ladder.

And the scariest thing is what is that from here the only place to go on to is the Reverend Mother.

Cyclical

It's very strange to find yourself in situations you've been in before, but not as yourself.

Being the one standing on the edge of the deck to cries of "watch me, Mum!" when you can remember being the one doing all your tricks, and being frustrated that Mum was always looking away being busy elsewhere.

Being the one yelling "look at your room!"

Secretly stashing away presents in preparation for Christmas time, at the top of a cupboard which will eventually become the first place the kids look in their hunt in December.

Handing over the bowl to be licked clean

Having the car running

Showing the the oldest sister and brother the games that my brother and I used to play.

Always being the one who counts to ten in a game of Hide and Seek, no longer being the one with my head thrown under a duvet, wriggling and giggling in anticipation of being 'got'.

Watching from the far sidelines as the man that I grew up with next door, Dad's best friend, my friend's Dad. Always there, a big man's chuckly, always telling jokes, fights a nasty and losing battle with an illness of the elderly.

Cyclical.

When good parents go less than good.

It was one of those moments today, where you wished you could grab the nearest dog leash, rope it to one of your children, drag them to the closest sound proof room to have a good old fashioned vent about how their behaviour was affecting you.

Shepherding 4 children out the door, through the gate, down the driveway and into the car, 1 in the arms, 3 mobile, 1 fast walker, 1 slow walker, 1 doing what they were told, 1 not doing what they were told and 1 deliberately doing the opposite of what they were told.

Ultimately it was the 2 year old who turned it into a "please ground, open up and swallow me" moment. The baby grizzling, the 4 year olds sensing the desperation-about-to-turn-into-psychotic tone but Mr 2 was oblivious. Or perhaps he wasn't. Who knows, he's 2.

And in these moments, you're always alone. I wasn't surrounded by other out of control toddlers. I was surrounded by calm mothers, chuckling grandfathers and grandmothers holding the hands of their nicely behaved pre-schoolers chatting together about their day. Not to mention one of those calm mothers also being an off duty police officer who works in the child abuse department. All smiling sympathetically. Watching as I gritted my teeth, scooped up the 2 year old and marched everyone to the car... plotting my revenge... Next time we enter that building he will be in his stroller. Strapped in. Tightly.

Prunes

I was sorting through the baking supplies this afternoon, came across all manner of dried fruits, like dates, apricots, raisins, cranberries - whole, round, shrivelled fruits, that remain relatively unchanged after many years - sitting nicely next to the coconut and promising to become a delicious tasting muesli bar, or fruit loaf, or biscuit, perhaps.

And then I found a packet of something I'd grabbed randomly while whipping my way round Pak n Save, Lower Hutt (bigger than PnS Petone, not as big as PnS Royal Oak but always has more available boxes). It was a packet. Of Prunes. Rebranded prunes. Chopped up little bits of prunes, to look like raisins, taste like Prunes, cheerfully named "Plum Amazins" (cause it's made from plums, but rhymes with raisins.. get it?). You have to wonder how long and how much discussion at the Prune Awareness Association Round Table it took to come up with this name, which is clearly the lastest and greatest things in Prunes since they started wrapping them individually. As though a lonely prune sitting sadly by itself in a little packet would up its sale-ability. Didn't trick my kids.. "that's not a lolly, that's a shrivelled plum in a lolly packet".

Crazy. Seriously crazy. No amount of re-branding is going to better the reputation of the Prune. If it even had a bad reputation to start with? I mean, I'm not raisin-ist, date-ist, or craisin-ist. They're all good, tasty, healthy (not so good for teeth) and nice in muesli. I suppose as a Juice it's got a.. medicinal.. reputation, but that's quite different from the fruit.

Still, the marketing gurus should feel self satisfied because it worked... the evidence in my pantry is the shining packet of "Plum Amazins" - which do rather live up to their name, because I am, seriously, Amazed.

You know you've spent too much time around Drs/Hospitals when...

- you say you need to go to the Dr, the 2 year old grabs his shoes and says "C'mon Mum"and rushes to the front door.

- the 2 year old goes straight to his favourite book in the waiting room

- the 2 year old hears his name called, jumps up and drags you in the door by the hand

- the 2 year old says to the Doctor "Hi. You can listen to my tummy"

- the 2 year old says "you can give me an iceblock now"

- the 2 year old takes his medicine and marvels "ooh... it's pink"

- the 2 year old wakes up the next morning and brags to his sister "I got to go the the Doctor. I got pink medicine"

- you realise that in the last month you've spent more on Doctors visits than shoes.

Pause in transmission

The most effective diet I've ever been on is the raw chicken diet, totally unintentionally - thanks to under BBQ-ed chicken nibbles on Boxing Day one year. 2 weeks of being painfully ill, 6 weeks to start eating normally again, 3 dress sizes later... it was horrendous, but surprisingly effective.

Anyway, I have found myself in the middle of an unplanned 1 day version. That's what happens when you spend most of your day with small children - the places they like to hang are bug paradise. Hence there's been a brief pause in transmission.

On an unrelated note, we've just been through a few days of wild storms - the traffic cone on the Waterloo Rd pine tree remains. If it survived that then it's safe to say it's probably a permanent feature of the Hutt Valley.

Girls vs Boys - soccer edition

This afternoon included an amazing moment where all the elements lined up together for a short time - the baby was asleep, the sun came out, husband at work, older kids fed, awake and happy.. so we took advantage of this miracle to have a run around outside.

Mr 2 loves soccer, so we got out and kicked the ball. He and I ran up and down and up and down and up and down the driveway, he kicked the ball ahead of him, keeping up with it pretty expertly. I got to run along side him trying to get the ball off him, but not actually succeeding much. Each game has it's own set of rules, and I quickly learnt that his defense plan was pretty much to kick the ball, and when that failed to cry and yell "NO! I KICK THE BALL!". As a strategy it was very effective. We ran, kicked, dribbled and chased and had a ball (pun intended).

His sister was out there with us too. She was also playing soccer - her way.

Her game included naming the ball: "Ball-y". Ball-y was a fairy ball. She kicked it from the garage to the front yard, where they both stopped and she picked daisies for Ball-y. Then she sat on him and showered him in petals.

Boys and girls... very different creatures.

The Rugby

I'm watching the rugby. It's on delay, and so far we've covered the best bits.

Best bit #1:
The haka

Best bit #2:
The anthem

Now they're doing that playing thing. I've been watching Rugby for years, but have yet to understand it. What I've gathered so far, is they run, kick, throw in from the side and have a group cuddle. I know there are rules, I've just yet to be sober enough to sit through the entire game to figure it out.

We've just upgraded the old box tv and so are watching it in widescreen for the first time - it's amazing what you see that you wouldn't otherwise have noticed.. like streams of sweat.. the ball.. and the continually bewildered look on Dan Carter's face.

Some women are really into sports players.. not me.. I'd take "sense of humour" over "ability to run fast while holding a ball". And not just running, but taking a whole lot of knocks to the head along the way. Knocks to the head, knees, elbows... cauliflower ears.. it's not at all as pretty as the Jockey and Rexona ads would have you believe!

This time next year there's going to be nothing else to watch on TV... better get learning those rules or it'll be an exceptionally long 6 weeks.. Plus, I get to giggle everytime they go to scrum and the South African ref says "crouch".. cause it sounds like "crotch", which, ironically, is where most of them in the scrum are about to put their heads!

Today is Steal a Road Cone Day

Dare ya to swap your Ugg Boots for some climbing shoes and get this one!

The Mysterious Case of the Waterloo Cone

Very slowly people travelling down Waterloo Rd are starting to notice something a tad... out of place. On the top of a very tall Norfolk Pine out the front of St Bernards School on Waterloo Rd is a bright orange traffic cone.

We've been tracking it's progress. It first appeared a few months ago, but was sitting about 8 branches down from the very peak, nestled against the tree's trunk, and that's where it just hung out. A few weeks ago, during the July school holidays, it jumped to the very peak, where it proudly sits now. If you look very closely you can see a rope hanging down from it which wasn't there the first time, so someone obviously put a bit of thought and strategy into getting it there. It was one of those valiant and/or stupid acts, those branches up the top are scarily thin, and probably rather brittle too.

Whoever put it there is likely to be a legend amongst their mates. They'll be able to admire their work for a long while - no one's offering to be the one to take it down. Until then, there it sits, in a very slow battle of Wellington Wind vs precarious Traffic Cone. Keep an eye out for it.. just make sure that when you do, you don't stand down wind.

Dieting

Now that I can be found rocking around Queensgate in my new Reebok Easytones (thanks Banks Shoes) and I am on a quest to wear short shorts (not really, that'd be a bit of a public nuisance, but the Reebok ad says I'll be able to, so I'd like to believe them, they'll look great with my Ugg Boots) it's time to take my eating in hand, and bring out the big D word. Diet. There are so many different ways and means to do this, but what I find hard to get my head around is The Rules, so I've been compiling a list:

It does NOT count toward a diet if:
- You eat it on Saturday
- You wash it down with diet coke
- It isn't cooked yet (like cake batter)
- You only eat it in small slices at a time
- It comes off the kids plates
- It is in liquid form
- It's on top of a salad
- It's eaten while you're standing up

It's a good diet if:
- You get a feeling of smugness by using the phrase "I'm trying to be good"
- It includes steak
- It includes chocolate
- You are eating enough to maintain brain function

Remember: It's not a good diet if you don't get to be a fun, normal person. You are what you eat. And no one makes friends with salad.

My Daughter is a Fairy

Fairies wear pink, fairies have wings (sometimes made from cloth, sometimes made from paper, sometimes made from shiny plastic), fairies talk in a high pitched american accent and fairies do ballet.

This is according to the 4 year old, and must be taken as gospel as she is the expert on fairies in our house.

On a good day, it's extremely cute. Not on a good day, it's the sort of thing that holds you to ransom. What plate? The fairy plate. What cake? The fairy cake. What would you like to chat about? Let's chat about fairies. What story should we read? The fairy book? Twinkle twinkle little...? Fairy!

The key to being a real fairy is to have the right gear. As well as wings, the key outfit requirements are a pretty dress, a crown and a wand. All very beautiful, except totally impractical. Chaos ensues when the fairy gets stuck up a tree or her skirt caught around the wheel of the bike at the same time as the 2 year old runs off with the wand and turns it into a weapon of mass destruction.

When she grows up, Miss 4 would like to *be* a fairy. I've tried to point out it's not much of a career, so we're "working on a compromise"... which means I'm trying to convince her that a Fairy Doctor would be good. It's not working, but at least I can say I tried.

"Duh duh duh, Fairy NEWS on Fairy FM.. mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm.. Fairy Weather... mm mm mmm mmm. Now it's time for your first Fairy Hit, on Fairy FM, all fairies, all the time, Fly along with us, right here on Fairy. F. M, fairy, fairy, fairy."

Neighbour on the move? Update #3

In this morning's mail we very helpfully got a Real Estate Agent notepad in the letterbox today and it's the people who have listed next door - so now we have pictures of who to look out for... this will come in handy! The front of the house is now all one colour, and there were builders on site this afternoon, which is a curious development.

Sign of house being listed for sale:

- having all the little bits fixed in a house

Sign of house not being listed:

- unsightly sightings of builders crack
- side door not attached to house

So there's still a way to go...

There is nothing funny about a child in hospital

There's nothing funny about looking after your own child in hospital.

Having said that, parts of it can be.

A child with a broken limb is quite different to a properly sick child, and so they do what toddlers do, chat - loudly. Sing - loudly. Ask questions - loudly.

"Mummy, what's that man/nurse/lady/boy/girl doing?"
"Mummy, why is that boy sad?"
"Mummy, why is his Dad snoring?"

"Coming up on Kidzone.. chuggington! - Chuuuugintooon... chugga chugga chugga"

"Mummy, is that the doctor?" (no honey, that's the orderly)
"Mummy, is he an oddily?" (yes honey)
"Mummy, he's not a man" (yesss he issss)
"Mummy if he's a man then why does he have a pony tail?"

"Twinkle, twiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinkle, little staaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrr"

"What did you say Mummy?"
"Mummy, why do I have to shush?"
"Mummy, why is bedtime?"
"Mummy, why can't I talk if the lights are off?"
"MUMMY WHY AREN'T YOU TALKING TO MEEEEE??"

So then we walk, up and down, up and down, up and down. More singing, more questions, more walking, eventually crashing, mid-song, several hours later.

I gather that most kids aren't so cheerful when they wake up from being under GA. Can't say that applies to mine. Waiting around during surgery is harrowing. You have no idea what's going on, where they're up to, how they're getting on. It's worst case scenario paradise in your head. Finally you get the call and are sent to see a slightly groggy child eating an iceblock. He looks at me, smiles, finishes most of his iceblock and falls asleep with the last bit dripping out of his mouth down his neck. Back in the room he stirs again, drearily opens his eyes, sees me, looks around and gets a sense of where he is, looks back to me, focuses and smiles. "Mummy, I'm hungry". With that you know it's all gone well and he's just fine.

Negotiating the Cafe: how to consume caffiene, not upset other diners and leave without spilling anything on the floor

Impossible.

Shopping with Kids

Shopping with the kids is like a series of mini nightmares. It requires a strategic approach and aggressive tactics because they hit back hard with their own special flavour of guerilla warfare.

I like to take a methodical approach.

The first attack comes in the car, in the parking lot, and sounds a lot like a lecture. "Mummy and Daddy need to go into this shop to buy a table. We won't be long. We DO NOT WANT any squealing or running around. If you do this, we will take longer and you don't want that, do you children?"

The second comes on getting out of the car, one gets strapped in the pram, the others get a designated parent who holds their hand. So far, so good.

At this stage, it's safe to enter the store but they hit back with their first manoeuvre, by wriggling their hands, sitting down and squealing loudly "let me gooooooo". First point to the children, a quick survey of the other shoppers to make sure they saw that you were only holding the child's hand, and an under the breath curse at section 59.

Now they've been let go, they have the upper hand. They are faster, louder and don't have any purpose for being in the shop, just the aim of wreaking havoc. While the slightly cleverer, older one would normally wait till we've engaged a sales person in conversation, the smaller one just clears off at the first chance he gets, so she takes this as her chance to go too. They squeal in delight at being free. The shoppers all turn to see where the noise came from. The kids see they are getting a bit of attention, so squeal a bit louder and longer this time, to see if something more happens. It does. More people turn to look, while Mum and Dad go a deeper shade, a mix of embarassed pink and angry red. I try a subtle move here, a hiss: "children, stop screaming, and behave, please!" Jackpot. More squeals, mixed with shrieks of laughter now.

They're under a table and The Husband wants to storm over, drag them out and yell. But that's our old friend Section 59 - it's not a good idea to do this in public anymore, it can be misinterpreted. He holds back, goes more red. We won't be buying a table today, now we just have to get out of here in one piece.

The children are better equipped for this. We're the Na'vi with bows and arrows, they're the American Military, with helicopters and machine guns. We're down to our last weapon, it's our last line of defence, but it's got to work, because after this we've got nothing. We're resorting to bribery. "Children, stop yelling. Come here, stand nicely and if you behave nicely for the whole time, we'll go to a cafe afterwards and you can have a fluffy with marshmallows" (Good idea to point out here, this is the NZ interpretation of the word "fluffy", not the american). Silence.

The kids slink over. We breathe a sigh of relief, mumble an apology directed to the sales staff and shoppers within earshot, and leave.

It's gone okay, the kids kind of actually won, but at least we can feel reasonably successful. It could have gone worse, there were no tears, for example. We pack them in the car and catch our breath as we prepare for the next Battle - "Negotiating the Cafe: how to consume caffiene, not upset other diners and leave without spilling anything on the floor".

Sucks to be a baby...

We have a pecking order in our house. In general it looks something like this:

Whoever is screaming and crying
Whoever is crying
Whoever is screaming
Husband
Me
The cats

It is rather fluid though, and not set in concrete. Like tonight, for example, the cats collaborated - the white one sat on the pile of freshly folded black T-shirts, and the other made it her mission to walk half a step ahead of me all night and meow. So they made it up the list. They had their dinner, before I got mine.

On any given day in our house, you can expect to hear the phrase "sucks to be a little baby...". It's harsh, but true.

Oldest child has the most experience in manipulating, second child has the most experience in hitting, which means third child has a long way to go to get to the front of the pack. She's the last to have breakfast, last to get dressed and the first to get turfed out of her pram if the others need a seat.

Like today, when the toddler spectacularly capsized off his bike into a giant puddle, on an afternoon that was 5 degrees at best. Baby was thrown onto my hip, toddler thrown in pram, four year old screaming she wanted to be carried too, and we took 5 minutes to walk the 50 metres home. Toddler and 4 year old thrown in the warm bath, baby thrown on floor so the others could be dealt with.

She's a good wee girl and takes it in her stride and I've rewarded her by making her my favourite. Until she's 2. Then she has to fight for her place in the order and pull out all the crying/whinging/screaming stops, like the rest of them. I'm sure she'll be okay - she's learning from the best.

And I'd finish this post of with some sort of witty comment to summarize - but The Husband wants the laptop to stream the Tri-nations ABs vs Australia test. They're about to do the haka, so time is of the essence. I know my place...

Mall Rats

I remember being a teenager. It's not like it feels that long ago. Yes, okay, it was a wee while ago, but it doesn't feel so long. It was a fast decade.

So when I see the gangs of teenage boys and gaggles of teenage girls all hanging out in 'around about' the same area, just standing far enough away to appear aloof, it brings back memories. I know what those giggling, blushing, girls are thinking. (To this day, I still have no idea what it was like from the teenage boy's point of view, quite frankly, I'm rather glad, and hope I never do..)I remember clearly the feelings of inadequecy, and the excitement of the romance (I read Twilight, I know what it's about). The rush of meeting someone new, your friends sussing out his, "going around" together. Not minding that you have no common interests and that he's more of the mumbly, grunty variety. Going home wondering if he really liked you, and if he'd ring.

The boys hanging back and laughing at each other, egging each other on. The girls talking high pitched and much, much, louder than normal. Tops lowered, skirts hiked up, lip gloss on, eyes batting. One person from one group, tentatively making themselves physically closer to the other. More shrieking laughter. Moving on to the next gang of boys if there's no success with the first.

And then there's me, having stayed at the mall too close to dinner time, pushing the double pram which takes up an excessive amount of the path, with a toddler screaming, a baby wanting milk and a reluctant 4 year old whinging and refusing to keep up. Trying to push past this teenage lovefest and just wishing they'd cluster and bat their eyelids somewhere that wasn't where I was trying to go. Biting my tongue and holding myself back from rushing up to one of them screaming like a crazed woman:

"Don't do it!! See what I'm having to deal with right now??? This is where your path leads.. does it look worth it to you???!!"

The 4 year old vs The Big Needle

Nothing says "Great Parenting!" like dangling a large double sized chocolate bar in your 4 year old's face, then taking them to a nail salon for a bright pink manicure. But, today, that is what I did. Judge me, or don't judge me, but I figured for the 4 year old immunisations I was going to have to bring out the big guns.

Thinking through the logistics, I'd decided that if we went all positive and talked up the process and had a big indepth happy optimistic discussion about the Big Needle and how it would hurt a little bit and that there would be chocolate at the end, I could trick her into one injection. And then I figured the second injection would be a bit trickier.

So that's what we did, we talked about it during the day, went to the dairy to pick the special reward chocolate (Turkish Delight Bar because it came in a dark pink wrapper), left the littlies at home with Dad, because at times like these Mum's sympathy is what's needed.

I was right.

The first one went in to her leg, the plaster went on, and she lost it. Really. LOST. IT. I had the chocolate out, even had some of it stuffed in her mouth, had her arm held tight and the needle went in amidst a massively high pitched scream. Chocolate was spat across the room, the plaster was whacked on, we did our 20 minute wait in the waiting room, all while the screaming continued. It continued down the road. It continued into the parking lot of the mall. It continued all the way until I decided that nails could not be made pink through all that noise. So, in an instant, she cheered up.

We went to the special Manicure place, she picked a bright, almost flouro, pink and sat so still while the man gave her "Barbie Nails".

She's still very unimpressed by the whole process, and we've sinced discovered that injections hurt more than the baby pulling her hair, and less than walking into some shelves at Farmers.

I've learnt something too - this is for next time: I'm not doing it. Mummy can have all the sympathy in the world, but when it comes to that second needle, nothing is going to be as useful as Daddy's physical capability to hold still a thrashing 4 year old.

Bicycle Helmets

There was a guy on the news last night advocating for removing the law forcing cyclists to wear helmets. This, to me, sounds like a great idea. I stopped riding a bike the day they brought the law in. It felt dorky - and looked dorky too.

The thought of leaving the cafe and just jumping on a black bike with high handles, and a basket on the front for my handbag, whipping up the road to work, with the wind blowing through my hair as I make my way there, just sounds wonderfully European and romantic.

The reality - of a bike seat half the size of the seat of my pants, muffin top on display, frizzy hair, the smoke fumes from the traffic, and near life-and-death misses while sharing the road with buses - is perhaps a little less romantic.

I think it's a good concept, but I'm not so sure it's been thought through. I think there should be guidelines. So I've come up with a list to clarify what the law should say:

People who don't need helmets:
- Me, and anyone worried about their hair and/or outfit.

People who should wear helmets:
- Anyone on a road that I'm about to drive down in my oversize SUV, or anyone who drives in a similar way
- The school children who whip past on the footpath while I'm reversing out of my drive way.

Tupperware

Daughter's preschool is fundraising, which is fair enough, they need to raise funds. I'm happy to support them, even if we don't particularly like them (Daughter does though, so she's not being neglected or anything) and would like to participate in fundraising activities.

Except - it's Tupperware.

Plastic containers that cost more than the same item made out of Sterling Silver. Stuff you get for under $10 from the supermarket or $2 Shop. Stuff that the kids magically manage to lose all of one particular half of that thing, like the lids - so you end up with 20 plastic boxes that are essentially useless because you can't cover them.

As much as I love the sight of neatly stacked and packed items, all colour co-ordinated, lined up in rows, shining from the shelf.. or prepping baking with ingredients in matching bowls.. or sending the kids off with their packed lunches in tidy compartment containers - I can't justify the cost. To get each child just one lunch box, there's only a few cents worth of change out of $100.

We budget, and $100 goes a long way... like, towards a month membership at the gym, or half way to a pair of boots, or a nice top, or a case of wine on special at Countdown. You know, important places..

Having said that, I'll be filling in my form as soon as I can find a pen around somewhere. It's for a good cause, not only does it go towards supporting the preschool - it also means I can send my daughter off in the morning with smug satisfaction that her lunchbox is as good as, if not better than, the child sitting next to her. And as much as I like to pretend it's not a competition, sometimes, it just is.

Trampolining in the sunshine.

My husband is such a novice! It's a beautifully sunny afternoon outside and the kids are enjoying the last of the afternoon jumping on the trampoline with Dad. And it's just ended in tears. To be fair, most things end in tears but he makes such rookie mistakes!

The pre-schooler is screaming. The Toddler is looking bewildered. And The Husband is grumpy.

Lesson no 36: If you want to stop a game, saying "okay, it's over, let's go inside for dinner" is the quickest way to tears. Children need a countdown of warnings at a 5 min, 3 min, 2 min, 1 min and 3o seconds. They need motivation to go inside. They need a nice voice, and a cheerful disposition and a happy environment to move through from play to dinnertime.

Of course, it's still going to end in tears, perhaps just a few less.

Are the neighbours selling?? Update

Waved at neighbour out kitchen window as he came home from work last night, but his wave back showed no signs of someone hiding a secret.

Latest clues:

No listing in the local paper
Real Estate Agent looking car in the driveway at lunchtime today

Ballet Moms

Yes, I live in NZ but there is something so encapsulating about the word "mom" especially when applied to categorizing different groups of Mothers.

At pre-school pick up yesterday I ran into a Ballet Mom. We'd trialled ballet for a term last year, but had decided it wasn't us. She proceeded to tell me about they were doing "such amazing things" now, how the little girls were dancing above their age level, and how the teacher is "so FAAAB u lous" (yes, fabulous is actually three separate words) which I replied to in the appropriate places with a bunch of "aww"s and "wow"s and "I bet"s. Just as my face started to ache from all the exuberant smiling and nodding the conversation came to a natural pause; Ballet Mom turns to me and says: "So, what does your daughter do, then?".

Ah. (Pause)

So here's the crucial point, I must answer with care. It's like the choice between the snakes and the volcanoes in the Pick a Path book "The Jungle of Peril", because we don't do any activies. So my options are:

a) lie "we've just signed her up for violin, Irish dance, tap and a hip hop class, they start next week"
b) extend the truth "we're just doing extension pre-school stuff at the moment, like maths and writing" (dividing up the last chip packet into thirds counts as maths, and drawing on the walls counts as writing, right?)
or
c) be creative "we're not doing traditional extension activities but we've signed her up for a weekly tour of the art gallery and she's SO into Picasso right now".

Of course, I could have just been honest: "Actually, we just go home and hang out. She's only 4..." But that's a move that could get us permanently removed from the birthday invite list, and I don't want my daughter to suffer from Mom Politics.

So I took option c and got creative "Well, I've just found about Zumba For Kids, and so I've got her name down for that, we're going together". I was quite satisfied with this, and so was Ballet Mom. At that point storytime finished and our kids were all released to go home.

Still, hopefully it won't last too long, by the time my daughter is 5 there won't be as many mothers like this to deal with... in our area there is a plethora of Decile 10 state primary schools with good reputations which none of the Real Ballet Mothers will be sending their children to... Not to the local school, with the local children, after all.

Brad Pitt is in the 'hood

Okay, perhaps not in the hood, but definitely in the area code. Last night he was seen eating curry at an Indian restaurant in a posh part of Wellington City. The eyes are out everywhere on a Brad Hunt. I'll be pounding the pavement later, kids in the double pram, scouting for sightings of him at Queensgate, the Hutt Mall.

I'm not sure what he's in little old NZ for, but I am officially extending the invite of afternoon tea. Brad, if you feel like swapping Ange for the afternoon for another Mother, similar age, but one who is, literally, twice the woman she is, then please pop over anytime. I can offer the familiar feeling of chaos that you'd get at home - from half the children. A warm, but messy home, hot coffee and a fresh muffin or two.

Call me.

Hutt Valley Housewives vs Desperate Housewives

I was thinking about Gabrielle in the first series of Desperate Housewives this morning, and her affair with the high school aged gardener.

We live near a high school and they park in our road. When I'm trying to leave with a car full of screaming kids in the morning, I often can't get out of the road without having to wait for them all (and then there's their mothers who insist on driving them all the way to the school gate, even though they're teenagers - no wonder we have an obesity epidemic) and while I'm glaring at them in my rear view mirror I can't help but think of Gabrielle.

It sounds good in theory, and the actor that played John was pretty gorgeous, but the reality is much different. I figure it only worked because she a) found one that spoke in words, not grunts b) found one that looked at least 25 and c) it was a storyline on a TV show. At the end of the day, high school boys are just that: surly, pimply boys, who drop their chip wrappers on the ground, park over the driveway and who coincidently all cluster in groups outside the houses with teenage daughters.

I'm terrified that my lovely toddler will one day be one them; and I'm even more worried that one day my beautiful daughters will be wanting to hang out with them. I'm sure of one thing though, and that is that art will not imitate life with this Hutt Valley Housewife! I'll have my gardeners a little older and broader across the chest, thanks.

The neighbours are moving on..

It wasn't hard to figure that something was changing next door. Firstly, their house that was once several different shades of lemon yellow and cream suddenly was repainted the same shade of coffee. Secondly, she'd started putting fresh flowers out.

If that wasn't enough of a giveaway, an Open2View photographer, and half a dozen real estate agents pouring out onto the street sealed the deal. So it didn't seem unreasonable to ask if they were moving.

Me: Did I see a caravan of real estate agents come through today? You're not selling are you?
Her: Oh NO.. we wouldn't do that... they were just doing a valuation, nice to know how much our house is worth, you know.

Strange, but we went about our weekend. Then tonight The Husband is googling the street (because cyber stalking is a perfectly normal part of life) and finds their house listed with a second rate agency. It's right there. On the big wide web.

It poses a real problem though, because at some point it's going to become more obvious. Like, when a big sign goes up out the front. Or when it gets a big "SOLD" sticker slapped all over it. Or when they start to pack up their things. Or when they leave a forwarding address. And so now, at what point is it appropriate to make mention of it? In a jokey way over the fence "oh, I guess you're selling up then... weird cause remember when you said you weren't" Cue awkward laughter and inspections of one's own shoes.

On the plus side, they're leaving, so it shouldn't be awkward for too long. We're hoping for a family to move in with similar aged kids. Next best thing would be a family with a daughter babysitting age.

And we hope they sell it for way more than asking price. Because it looks good for the street that way.